Read Online Bad Tidings by Nick Oldham - Free Book Online Page A

Getting no reply, he left a voice message,
    He decided to visit the scene where Peters’ body had been discovered, thinking dismally that this had all the hallmarks of being a long drawn-out investigation, not made any easier by coming to it late.
    Whenever possible, Henry liked to be in at the death.
    Another person not especially happy to see Henry on Christmas Day was Bernadette Peters. She opened her front door suspiciously to him. He gave her his best lopsided grin (it was getting a little overused on that day), which became a ‘sorry to disturb you’ expression as he introduced himself.
    â€˜I’m actually just having my Christmas dinner . . . but, hey, what the hell, it’s only an M&S meal for one. I can zap it back in the microwave. Come in.’ She stood back and let him walk past her. She was still dressed in her sleeping attire, a long towelling dressing gown tied tightly over her nightdress and a pair of fluffy, tatty slippers.
    Henry thanked her and entered the lounge of the house, which was situated in Blackpool’s north shore on the boundary with Bispham. It was a careworn semi in need of a lot of TLC.
    She had been watching TV with a tray balanced on her knees, on which was her plated-up microwaveable turkey dinner for one. She moved past Henry and picked up the tray, giving him a sidelong glance. ‘I really pushed out the boat this year . . . it’s usually a Tesco one.’ She went into the kitchen.
    Henry felt a slight jolt within him. Nothing connected with the investigation, but something that stabbed at his own failings as a man and husband. He had an inner vision of the countless Christmas Days that Kate had been forced to endure without him because of ‘work commitments’. He knew she had often prepared meals of proper turkey, slaved over a hot stove, only for them to go to waste, but at the time it hadn’t meant anything much to Henry, not being home at Christmas. Kate had always laughed it off. He swallowed dryly.
    And here he was again, working on 25 December. His mouth went tight in self-loathing.
    Mrs Peters emerged from the kitchen and Henry smiled again, noting that under the drabness of her unkempt appearance, she was very attractive. ‘Obviously I don’t know why you’re here, but I guess it’s about David. Can I offer you a brew?’
    â€˜That would be great. Tea? Just milk.’
    â€˜Coming up. I’ll go back in here’ – she pointed to the kitchen – ‘and you can have a minute or two doing what detectives do – snoop. I don’t mind.’
    Henry chuckled and said, ‘Only on TV.’ But when she disappeared, he snooped, taking in the room, the fixtures and fittings, the framed photographs on the fireplace, one of which was of her and her dead husband. Henry picked it up and studied it, wondering how happy she thought they’d been at the time.
    â€˜Don’t know why I keep it there.’
    Henry spun guiltily as she came back in from the kitchen, bearing two mugs of tea, handing one across to him.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    She screwed up her face and sat on the settee, pondering the question. ‘Dunno,’ she frowned. ‘I thought we were OK-ish. Not ab-fab, if you know what I mean, just pretty standard. Dull, unremarkable, rubbed along all right, mostly, tolerated each other. Clearly he thought I was a boring cow. Two kids – who, incidentally, I haven’t seen for six months – then, Wham!’
    Henry took a seat on an armchair.
    â€˜He’s having a sordid affair and then he’s murdered. Double-wham, actually. I’m still not sure I can believe either. He wasn’t exactly a Romeo, but mind you, that bitch isn’t exactly Angelina Jolie – but hey! These things happen.’ She sounded sad, resigned and, despite using the word ‘bitch’, not resentful.
    â€˜You think the two are connected, the affair and